


The Stakes are High and Scratchy

by HugeAlienPie



Series: The Sweater Bet [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bets & Wagers, Christmas, College Student Stiles, Deputy Derek, First Dates, First Kiss, Future Fic, Multi, Ugly Holiday Sweaters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-07 07:47:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1117339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HugeAlienPie/pseuds/HugeAlienPie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing is, Noah wants a shot at a relationship with Melissa. Still. He's not going to let some smart-aleck punk bait him without repercussions--especially when that punk's his kid. He gives a smile that's probably sharper than Stiles expects. "All right," he concedes, "I will if you will."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Stakes are High and Scratchy

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a little late for Christmas fic, but [this gifset](http://allteenwolf.tumblr.com/post/70929579531/what-would-the-sheriff-want-on-his-wish-list) crossed my dash on December 26, and it inspired me to write this.
> 
>  **ETA 1/7/17** : Welp, now that we have FINALLY been graced with the sheriff's given name, looks like it's time to start going back and slooooowly updating fics. YOU'RE WELCOME, _NOAH_. Sheesh.

Noah supposes he's thinking about werewolves (when is he _not_ , these days?) when he finds the shawl wedged behind the sofa cushion. How Scott buries his face in Kira's hair. How Ethan wears a brown leather wrist cuff Noah's 99 percent sure used to be Danny's and sits with his chin propped on his hand, nose angled down, like no one's gonna notice what he's doing. Noah's no werewolf, but when he inhales, he gets a faint whiff of antiseptic and perfume--Opium, he remembers from the year Claudia helped Scott buy a bottle for Christmas. The fabric retains some warmth from lying against skin all afternoon, and it's... _comforting_. As if 'home' and 'family' were ingredients you could list on a perfume bottle.

"That may have been the easiest Thanksgiving clean-up _ever_ ," Stiles announces from the living room entryway. "For primeval supernatural beasts, they sure are tidy." He bounds into the room, dishtowel swinging from his hand, and heads toward the couch--toward Noah. Noah drops the shawl as though it's scalded him and prays his son was too wrapped up in his thoughts to notice what dear old dad was up to. The shawl falls in an accusatory lump on the back of the couch. Stiles' mouth drops open and his eyes bug, and Noah resigns himself to another unanswered prayer. "Dad, were you sniffing that?" His eyes go even wider, now with alarm, and he rushes forward, grabbing Noah's arm. "Dad! You and Scott were in the basement an awfully long time. Did he turn you? Are you a werewolf now?"

Seriously. His kid. Noah removes his arm from Stiles' grasp and gives him a look he's pretty sure counts as a bitchface. "Stiles. Stop. I'm not a-- _really_?"

Stiles shrugs, unconvinced. "Fine, but you need the wolfy super-sniffer to suss out who it belongs to."

Noah feels the blush run up his scalp. "It's--" He clears his throat. "I know whose it is."

"Yeah?" Stiles asks, curious. He runs a finger over the shawl, a soft, rose-colored cotton thing with a faint shine and a subtle leaf pattern. Then his gaze snaps up to Noah's, and even without 25 years' experience as a cop, Noah would know he's busted. "It's Melissa's, isn't it?" Stiles' hands clasp together in front of his mouth, and he bounces on the balls of his feet. Forget Christmas-- _this_ is Stiles' magical day. "It is! You were _sniffing_ Melissa's shawl. Oh my god, Dad, is this--is it on? Is it gonna happen?" His arms pinwheel wildly, almost catching Noah in the face with the towel a couple times on the downswing. "The thing! The thing Scott and I have been hoping for since we were 14--is one of you finally _doing something_ about it?"

"There's no--Stiles!" Noah scowls and swats Stiles' hand down. "She left a shawl here. That's all. There is no _thing_." He's startled by the sharpness of the disappointment that flares in him.

Stiles' eyes narrow. "Why not? And fair warning: if you say 'It's complicated,' I'll hit you in your lying mouth with this towel."

"Stiles!" Noah sighs and rubs his eyes. "It _is_ complicated."

"Do you like her?" Stiles demands.

No point lying there. He waves a hand at the shawl. "Yeah."

"And she likes you. What's the problem?"

"I'm not sure she does," Noah admits. Fate and the pack's questionable decision-making skills have thrown them together so many times over the past few years. If Melissa were interested, wouldn't she have given him _some_ sign by now?

Stiles makes a sound like nothing in the _universe_ has ever disappointed him more than his father does at this moment and pulls his phone from his pocket. "Bro," he says as soon as someone picks up, "you're on speaker."

"Uh, okay," Scott says easily. "Hi, Derek."

"What?" Stiles squawks, blushing furiously. "Why would you-- _no_ , it's not Derek. Jeez, Scott. No, listen, I need you to tell me about the churros again."

Scott, bless his still-too-trusting heart, doesn't ask why, doesn't ask who else is listening. He launches into a tale about how, this year, everything that could possibly go wrong with Melissa's churro-making did, but how she stubbornly refused to abandon them because it's tradition and she couldn't let Noah down. Yeah, it could be construed as a romantic gesture, but Noah's been around long enough to understand the consequences of reading something that's not there into a situation.

"Thanks, dude!" Stiles says at the end of the story, still chuckling. "See you at Lydia's stupid Jane Austen marathon tomorrow." He ends the call and stares at Noah, tapping his phone against his hand in a surprisingly threatening manner. "So. There's that. If she's not on this train, she's at the station." Noah snorts. Stiles licks his lips, and his gaze darts around the room before he steps forward and puts his hand on Noah's arm. "The place in our hearts where Mom goes will always be empty, and that'll always suck. But we can't deny ourselves happiness forever."

Noah can't believe he's losing a relationship argument to his 19-year-old son, but the thing is, he _wants_ a shot at a relationship with Melissa. Between picking up their lives after Claudia's death, keeping mundane crime in Beacon County in check, stopping Beacon Hills from becoming a supernatural sinkhole, and raising Stiles to passably independent adulthood, Noah can't remember when he last went after something because _he_ wanted it, because there was a chance it would make him (okay, and hopefully Melissa) happy.

Still. He's not going to let some smart-aleck punk bait him without repercussions--especially when that punk's his kid. He gives a smile that's probably sharper than Stiles expects. "All right," Noah concedes, "I will if you will."

"I--y-- _what_?!?" Stiles' jaw hangs open for a minute, then he snaps it shut with a determined click. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Stiles. I am your father _and_ the sheriff. You think I haven't noticed you and Derek dancing around each other for the last year? So, fine: I'll ask Melissa out if you ask Derek."

"Dad," Stiles protests, genuine panic in his voice, "We're not-- _he's_ not--" Noah stares, arms crossed, until Stiles just...deflates. "Oh my _god_ , you're a jerk," he mutters. He shifts from foot to foot, gaze toward the floor, worrying his lower lip with his teeth. Then he inhales, squares his shoulders, and meets Noah's gaze. He sticks out his hand with the grim determination of a fighter pilot volunteering for a suicide run. "Deal."

Noah grins and shakes. The smile gentles as he considers the amazing young man his son's become, and he wraps his other hand around Stiles'. "Thank you," he says.

Stiles ducks his head but nods. He squeezes Noah's hand and then withdraws his own. He waves toward the stairs. "I'm gonna--ugh. I'm going to my room to plan how to ask out Derek Hale. And my subsequent funeral. Jerk."

Noah laughs, watching him go. Stiles' almost to the stairs when Noah gets the most fantastically awful idea. "Hey, Stiles?" Stiles pauses and looks back. "Raise the stakes a little?"

Stiles' answering grin is wicked. "Yeah?"

"Anyone who hasn't made his move by Christmas Eve day has to go to Mrs. Milligan's holiday sing _and_ wear whatever ugly sweater she gives him all Christmas day."

Stiles gasps. "You are a _devil_ ," he says, clearly impressed. "I accept. Bring it, old man."

Stiles can't see the dirty look Noah gives his retreating back as he goes up the stairs, but it makes Noah feel better.

*

Only then, nothing happens.

Noah's sense of romance, his competitive nature, and his burning desire _not_ to wear one of Mrs. Milligan's hideous, scratchy Christmas sweaters all remind him of the gauntlet that's been thrown down. But he's picked the worst time of year for this. Holiday cooking disasters and domestic incidents keep the department and the hospital in near-constant frenzy, and then he and Derek have to deal with a herd of wild ice ponies that start marauding through town after a junior high girl's spell backfires spectacularly. He's not _hiding_ , just...taking advantage of life's natural distractions.

He has no idea what to _say_ , is the problem. Turns out it's shockingly hard to convey to someone who's been one of your best friends for almost a decade that you want to explore a facet of your relationship that includes, in Stiles' words, 'naked sexy funtimes.' And what if, despite Stiles and Scott's reassurances, Melissa doesn't want this? Is he willing to risk one of his most treasured friendships on the word of two teenagers whose romantic histories are far from stellar? It's a terrifying prospect.

Stiles comes back from Reed on Friday, December 11, and his first words when he walks through the door are, "Hey, Daddio, how's Melissa?" Noah grits his teeth and grounds Stiles for impertinence, which Stiles laughs at (impertinently) before hauling his bag to his room. Noah knows it's time to step up his game. Or, you know, to get any game at all.

Stiles isn't around when Noah comes home from work on Saturday the 12th, but Noah assumes he's at the McCalls', mainlining Doritos and _Dr Who_ with Scott and Isaac. Only then Monday the 14th rolls around, and Derek comes into Noah's office before Noah's finished his first cup of coffee and stands in front of the desk, looking uncomfortable in his uniform for the first time ever. Noah raises his eyebrows and waits.

Two small red splotches appear on Derek's cheeks, and his gaze flits around the office, fixated on everything but Noah. He clasps his hands generally in front of his groin as he says, "Sir, I want you to know Stiles and I went on a date Saturday, and it was the most magical night of my life."

Noah coughs, glad he hadn't taken another sip of coffee when Derek came in. He leans back, laces his fingers over his stomach, and eyes his supremely uncomfortable deputy consideringly. "You want me to know that, do you?" he asks.

The red splotches deepen and spread. Then a smile creeps onto Derek's face, small, shy, and achingly _genuine_. "It's what Stiles told me to say," he says, "but it's true, anyway." He finally meets Noah's gaze. The look in his eyes takes Noah's breath away, because it's how Claudia used to look at him.

"All right," Noah says, nodding and trying to get himself under control. Derek tilts his head, frowning; he must've heard the skip in Noah's heartbeat and the catch in his breath. Noah waves his hand. "I'm fine. Happy for you both. Will it be happening again, or was it a casual thing?" As if he doesn't know the answer.

Derek's fingers flex. "Neither of us really does casual."

 _Lord, isn't that the truth._ Noah nods, sits up. "I won't give you the dad speech about breaking his heart, because frankly I worry more about what he might do to yours. Just...take care of each other, all right?"

Derek nods in solemn understanding. "We always do." An adorable pinched expression crosses Derek's face as he adds tersely, "I'm also supposed to tell you, 'Your move, old man.'"

Noah's eyes widen. He points at Derek. "You tell him--"

"Please," Derek begs, holding up his hand, "don't get me in the middle of this."

"Should've thought of that before you went out with him," Noah grumps, but he drops his finger. "Back to work, Hale."

" _Thank you_ , Sheriff," Derek says fervently, and flees the office.

 _Definitely_ time to step up his game.

*

God bless California cold snaps. The weather turns brutal the weekend before Christmas, and when Noah grabs his heavier coat off a hook by the back door, he finds Melissa's shawl under it. He stares at it for a long moment. He thinks about the increasingly besotted looks on Stiles' and Derek's faces as the week's progressed, about Deputy Wills leaving the holiday sing two years ago in a sweater so ugly Noah had almost arrested him for public indecency. He takes the shawl.

By 5:15, his errands are done and he's at Melissa's door, feeling like the world's biggest goober. Almost no time passes between Noah ringing the doorbell and Melissa answering; sitting in the driveway for five minutes talking himself into this wasn't his stealthiest move. Melissa's wearing threadbare black sweatpants and a long-sleeved red BHHS lacrosse t-shirt, number 14. Her eyes are wide and her skin pale as she searches his face.

"Noah? What is it? What's wrong? Is it Scott? Stiles?"

And it hits him: when you're the mother of a 19-year-old alpha werewolf and a sheriff's department cruiser parks in your driveway, you think _life-threatening emergency,_ not _chickenshit single guy._ "No, no," he says hurriedly. "It's--here." He thrusts the shawl at her. "You left this at the house on Thanksgiving." He winces, and a voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Stiles' starts laughing.

Melissa looks relieved but baffled as she takes the shawl. "Thank you. I've been looking for this. My sister gave it to me, so...thanks." She looks at him, clearly expecting him to say good-bye and leave, like any functional human being would. Noah stands there, hands crammed in his coat pockets, every word he's ever learned flown clean out of his head. "Is there..." She looks at him for a minute, and he feels flayed open, like she can see inside him.  She turns slightly, opening a path into the house. "Do you want to come in?"

"No, I, uh. Do you want to grab dinner sometime?" But they've had dinner together, at restaurants and each other's houses, scores of times. How to make clear he means something _different_? "If you're not--I mean, if you _are--"_ He stops. He has no idea what he was going to say, and given Melissa's amused-yet-gobsmacked expression, it's probably better to quit before he digs himself deeper.

One of Melissa's hands grips the edge of the door, and the other covers her mouth. "Are you--Noah Stilinski, are you _finally_ asking me out?"

"I. Uh." His cheeks burn, and he drops his gaze to the ground, scratching the back of his neck. "Yes?" he asks, peeking up at her.

"Red-letter day," Melissa breathes, and Noah doesn't think he was supposed to hear it. Then, "All right," she says, easiest thing in the world. She shoves her feet into a pair of boots and wraps the shawl around her shoulders, over Isaac's t-shirt, and comes out of the house, slamming the door behind her. "Let's go."

"I--you mean _now_?" He isn't ready for this. He hasn't _planned_ for this.

"Noah, I've wanted you to ask me out for four years. I'm not waiting another second. Start walking."

"Don't you need to--" He gestures helplessly at her head. He finds her beautiful no matter what, but he knows most women like to do...things before they go out. Strange, arcane things involving makeup and tiny torture devices.

Melissa shrugs. "I'm wearing shoes and a bra, and my hair is mostly all pointing in the same direction. I'm good." Dazed, Noah holds out his arm out, when Melissa rests her hand in the crook of his elbow, leads her to the car.

He drives two blocks before he realizes he has no idea where he's taking them. He may, once or twice, have imagined what a first date with Melissa McCall might look like. It has never looked like this. He clears his throat. "Where do you...?" He trails off, frustrated by the limits of the language. "It's early for dinner. And we're not dressed for...anything."

Melissa turns toward him and curls up a bit. She smiles, wide and bright and a little like flying. "I don't mind the time. And do you remember when I told you my secret food weakness?"

Noah grins back and hits his left turn arrow. "Patty melts at Silver Dollar."

It's possible Noah flagrantly misuses his badge to get them into Silver Dollar through the employee entrance. Stiles likes this place a lot, and Noah will be damned if he ruins his first date with Melissa by running into Stiles and Derek--or worse, Stiles and Scott. He waves Melissa ahead, and she slinks up to the swinging door to the dining area like a spy, peeking through a round cut-out window. She motions him up with a complete lack of subtlety, but her broad smile more than makes up for it.

As he approaches, he realizes she's humming the _Mission: Impossible_ theme, and he joins in for the three downscale runs before the laugh overtakes him. She grins at him, then reaches up a hand to cup his jaw, her eyes searching his face. He covers her hand with his and smiles back gently. "No arguments from this end," he says, and lowers his mouth to meet hers.

The kiss is gentle, brief, a soft brush of lips against lips. But the way he leans into her before pulling back, the way she drags her nails over his jawline as she lowers her hand--those feel like promises. They laugh all the way to the hostess stand and hold each other's hands until their food comes.

*

It's 2:00 on Christmas Day, and there's a legitimate risk Noah will explode if he puts another bite of food in his mouth. He's sprawled across a corner of a couch in the living room of the rebuilt Hale house, and he's wearing the world's second-ugliest Christmas sweater, which was a gift (and possibly a threat) from Melissa and Derek. The one they gave Stiles is uglier.

In the window seat across the room, Derek and Stiles wrap around each other like pretzels, heads bent together in secret conference. As soon as they arrived, Stiles had declared Derek the Birthday King, and it proves how deeply they've already worked under each other's skins that Derek's still wearing the paper Burger King crown that came with the title.

It hits Noah suddenly, and he groans. "Oh, no," he whispers to Melissa, "Derek is dating Stiles!"

Across the room, Derek freezes, and Noah realizes how that might've sounded just as Melissa slaps his arm. "Noah! Derek's a good man."

Noah nods. "Yeah, he is _now_." He sighs dejectedly, shoulders slumping. "Stiles is going to _ruin_ him."

The werewolves burst into startled laughter, trying not to look at Stiles or Noah, while the humans demand to know what they've missed. Stiles, especially, seems to be trying extra hard to pry the information out of Derek. Derek wisely shakes his head no and gathers Stiles closer for another kiss. Noah nods admiringly. Looks like the guy knows a few tricks for handling Stiles already; maybe they'll all survive this relationship after all.

"Damn, that is one ugly sweater," Noah muses, looking at Stiles. He smiles at Melissa. "Remind me not to make you and Derek mad at the same time again."

"Best not make us mad at all," Melissa murmurs from where she's slumped against his side, legs tucked up under her. "And be grateful we found comfortable sweaters. Mrs. Milligan's are _scratchy_." Noah laughs and kisses the top of her head where it rests against his shoulder. He buries his nose in her hair, Opium and antiseptic and _home._ He doesn't need to be a werewolf to know that.

**Author's Note:**

> If you [tumbl it](http://hugealienpie.tumblr.com/), they will come.


End file.
